


A Religious Experience

by royalelephant



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Because this is just porn, Geralt is worshipping his Bard, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Geraskier, M/M, Or maybe there's plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, With his cock, hotspring, i think, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalelephant/pseuds/royalelephant
Summary: Slipping his aching cock inside Jaskier is a religious experience if there ever was one.orGeraskier having hot sex. That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 207





	A Religious Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops. I actually wrote this after having peruse someone's Geraskier art portfolio on twitter. Such a fine community, I love them.
> 
> In my head Geralt and Jaskier are taking their time in the hotspring at Kear Morhen. But it can also be anywhere else you want, really. And somehow our bardling start this story out already losing his shirt in tatters....Seriosly I don't know what happened, but Geralt is very happy about the situation.

The air steams around them clouding his vision. Geralt reaches out to grab a handful of creamy flesh being presented before him, milky and warm, flushed pink and rosy from blood and heat and arousal. His ears easily pick up the hitch in the other man's breath as his fingers clench harder on the globe of his round, bouncy ass pushing back into his touch like eager puppies. He licks his lips, momentarily indecisive whether to bite down on the jiggling muscles or the shivering shoulder blade arching toward his mouth like an offering.

  
  
Fuck, Jaskier's whole being is pretty much an offering to his senses right now.

  
  
The bard is on his knees in front of him, nary a piece of cloth covering his body but the remnant of what had been a chemise hanging on its last thread off his arms and part of one shoulder. Blue eyes gazing over another shoulder back toward Geralt, smoldering with need and demands he can hear loud and clear without need of a sound but those little huffs falling from his slick, red lips.

  
  
He growls. The sound reverberating through the cavern and pools of hot springs under the Keep, harmonizing with low, satisfied hums from Jaskier once his thumb finally, _finally_ , slips inside the pucker peaking from between the cheeks being parted by his hands. The bard—his bard, damn him—pushes back eagerly, lowering his hands on the hard rockbed of a ground. His slipping forward with how slippery it is, his back arch like a bridge inverted, wanton and graceful. Offering his body with abandon.

His dick twitches at the sight, harden even more than it already is. His whole body trembles with how much it _wants_. Wants to move close and push inside, deeper and deeper as far as it can get, crawling in and buries there under all those soft, enchanting skin. Another thumb joins in with the first, slick with what might be half the bottle of bath oil Jaskier favors so much. Chamomile and myrrh waft up from between them, and Geralt watches, entranced, the puckered little hole slowly giving way to his ministration, opening wider the softer it gets, the more those hips moving in tandem with each circling push and pull. Until it is almost gaping in the middle, and dark cavern waiting for entry.

A guttural groan, and he doesn’t even know whose it is, doesn’t care. Jaskier’s neck and face are rosy-red and the eyes flicking back at his rimmed with tears, but the lips are wet and open, waiting. Inviting. Pulling him in like a shining beacon of lust. Geralt kisses him as per beckoned, savage and fast like an attack, deep and dark like a confession. Plunging his tongue inside, finding the other and intertwine, working in and out like a coordinated dance, filling both holes with himself.

Jaskier’s hips stutter, and a flush of new scent flood his senses. He glances down, and found the bard’s beautiful cock dripping, showing his nearing the peak of his pleasure. An animalistic sound escapes his throat, and Geralt pulls his thumbs out in a hurry, swiftly pushes the hairy shoulder blade down on the ground until that pinked hole is up in the air, winking back at him like a particularly wanting mouth of all that lusts and worldly pleasure stand for, waiting to be filled. And fill it he does.

Slipping his aching cock inside Jaskier is a religious experience if there ever was one. The heat slowly enveloping him hotter that the fog of steam around them, the ring of muscles minutely quivering as if it’s working not to clamp down, the inside slippery and soft, the scented oil mix with Jaskier’s skin of balsam and wildflower, the heady lust sparks inside him and it is all Geralt can do not to just _thrust_. Fucking himself inside and out and over and over. He finally nips down on Jaskier’s creamy skin where his shoulder meets his arm, working his teeth slowly up the slope towards his neck in time with the rhythm of his hip, going slightly deeper and deeper and deeper and _OH_.

Jaskier trashes beneath him when he finally bottoms out, knees slip apart and those lovely thighs spread even wider, body pliant and now lays almost flat on the ground. Geralt slips a hand over, cradling his bard’s belly to keep it off the hard rock, using the grip as leverage to pull him up and meet his thrusts, taking the rest of his own weight on his other forearm beside his bard—his lover’s—face. Slow and deep, he pushes inside and far as he could go, ears prickling with the mewling coming from his little songbird, singing long and loud in time with each slap of their flesh, echoing in the otherwise empty chamber.

Shaking with want and need and whatever else between them, Jaskier tries to scramble up on his knees, wordless cries of pleasure pouring out of his throat as if he can’t stop it. Geralt responds by fucking him harder, pushing him down with his weight on top of him, teeth biting hard into the milky nape right in front of him, hard enough to draw both blood and a deep, guttural groan from Jaskier as he peaks and stumbles over in ecstasy. His long body seizes and trembles, freezing for a split second be for spilling, the scent of his seed bursting out and overwhelming whatever pieces is left of his restraints and his thrusts turn frantic. Faster and harder and faster and harder still until he finally pushes down with all that he his spurting deep inside to the sounds of Jaskier’s mewling whimpers.

His songbird, sated and satisfied, hums a blissed-out, wordless tune.

Geralt, body loose and limbs rubbery, answers with his hmms.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to make it as warm? happy? as it ended up being. I mean, Jaskier's shirt was ripped?? but then Geralt just started having an *experience* during the whole thing an uh oh this is how it end up.


End file.
